


A Singular Purpose

by foreverdistracted



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blacksmithing, Developing Relationship, Drama, Dubious Consent (not with a major character), Dwarf Culture & Customs, Exile, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverdistracted/pseuds/foreverdistracted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle at Khazad-dum robs the young dwarven prince of his family. The long road afterwards robs him of the rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"There's no helping it." Thorin released a heavy sigh. "We lost too many warriors."

"Aye. The trek won't be short." Balin rotated the map his way and pointed at the eastern route. There was still a smidge of blood on his forefinger. "We can only spare a handful. Once our folk are settled in the Iron Hills, then our warriors can hasten westward again and meet with the main camp, perhaps by Tharbad or Sarn Ford."

Thorin gave an absent-minded nod. Their main assemblage had turned into a crawling, straggling mess since they picked themselves up after the battle in Azanulbizar. The healthiest would have to be the ones to venture east if the journey was to be swift.

"Dwalin." His dear brother-in-arms looked up at him from where he was perusing the map with a vicious frown. "You have been silent. You think it unwise?"

Dwalin shrugged. "Dain sent word too late." He glanced at Balin, as if assessing if his words would cause conflict. "And he offers too little. We take great risk by sending a fifth of our people back through dangerous roads with naught but a handful of men."

"We've cleared the way well enough," Balin countered. "It'll take the orcs weeks before they dare venture to the surface again. Beyond that..."

"Beyond that," Dwalin supplied helpfully, "there is Greenwood."

Thorin felt his skin prickle with irritation. He could feel the weight of Balin's gaze on him before the older dwarf spoke, "King Thranduil gave us his word -"

Thorin grit his teeth. "Thranduil's word means _nothing_."

Uncomfortable silence fell within the tent. The flickering of torches cast wild shadows on the map.

Thorin rubbed a hand tiredly over his face. "Balin," he said, his voice slightly muffled, "I can entrust this mission to no one else but you."

Thorin dropped his hand in time to see Balin's resolute nod. "How many warriors am I allowed?"

He took a mental tally of their remaining forces. "Sixteen." An unbidden memory came, too fresh and recent. Orcs streaming like water from sunless depths. He could still hear the drums. "It is all we can afford. Perhaps five bowmen. I'll leave that to your discretion. At least take with you Oin, Karvi, and Arvi. Dwalin -"

"I'm staying here."

"Dwalin stays with you."

Thorin raised an eyebrow, amused despite the gravity of the situation. The two brothers had almost tripped over their own words with how quickly they interrupted. He dipped his head, relenting. "Dwalin stays with me."

A niggling doubt blossomed as he spoke the words. He could have commanded otherwise, and the brothers would have followed without further protest. But try as he might, as invaluable a fighter as Dwalin was, he could not imagine making this journey without his silent presence nearby.

Thorin was all too aware of the wisdom he did not have. But their king was dead, his father missing, and even their elders looked to him now for strength and guidance. _Just this once,_ he promised himself. Dwalin paused at the tent's entrance and glanced back, as if sensing the direction his thoughts had taken, and gave him a wry smile.

***


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes, the payment asked for was unconventional. Those were the ones that took the most out of them, for other races were ever curious about Dwarven culture. It took very little for wondering glances to turn into demands, once they discovered how desperate these people were for the most basic of necessities. 

The first of a long list had been borne of the tantrum of a human boy who could not have been more than seven years of age. The lord of the large human township had been ready to wave Thorin off with the agreement of metalwork and field labor as trade, but the young boy had begun to point at Thorin, then tug, and scream, and cry, and such was the raucous that the lord's wife came out to see what harm was befalling her son. There was much discussion amongst the three, and, eventually, the lord had called Thorin over to revise the trade agreement.

Thorin's return to their camp that day was met with a loaded hush from the rest of the dwarves. Dis had been the first to meet him, but her words choked in her throat while her arms encircled him in a tight embrace.

He managed to keep his words dismissive, though he hugged her back just as tightly. "It will grow back, Dis."

Behind her, he caught sight of Gloin's glistening eyes, and Thorin was afraid the dwarf would start to openly weep. But they merely remained wet, and, for that, he was grateful. "That was too much to give, Thorin."

"It was necessary." Extremely so, Thorin thought, for that township had been the first they'd come across in two weeks of crossing arid land, and their supplies were dangerously low. Some had already fallen ill. "And we need not expend much in return - they only ask for steel and iron work."

The crowd slowly broke up. Skilled blacksmiths went back to their pack mules for their tools, while the others began to set up their personal tents and the makeshift rotunda for communal necessities.

Thorin would normally be overseeing these, but his thoughts kept returning to the wind brushing over his cropped hair and how exposed his neck felt. His hand had risen earlier to brush back strands that were no longer there, and he'd felt a flare of anger caused by that simple, habitual gesture. He was not in the mood for pitying eyes. 

"Gloin," he called after the departing dwarf, "you still have a spare set of tools?"

"Of course. What do you need?"

"Teach me," Thorin said, and followed him. 

 

Thorin awoke to some fanfare outside of the tent he shared with Dis the next day. He rose with a grumble (noting that his dear sister had, once again, decided not to wake him at dawn even though he had expressly told her to do so), barely letting himself spare a thought for the missing weight of his hair, and concentrated instead on the unfamiliar ache in his biceps and shoulders. After a graceless stretch of his protesting muscles, he left his tent to find a shiny-headed Dwalin waving his axe threateningly at a crowd.

"All right, stop gawking!" Dwalin made a show of anchoring Umraz on the ground at his feet. "Move on, you layabouts! There's work to be done!"

The top of his bare head appeared bumpy and ragged, with the hair shaved completely off instead of the close crop that Thorin was now sporting. Dwalin hadn't noticed him yet and was self-consciously rubbing his hand back and forth over the uneven skin.

Thorin clapped a hand on Dwalin's shoulder. The other dwarf hid his surprise with a grunt and a glare, as if daring Thorin to say anything untoward about his new appearance.

"It suits you," Thorin said, at length, with a grateful smile and a tight throat. "But you did not have to go to such lengths for me."

Dwalin's response was loud and spirited. "Who's doing it for you?" he said, while shrugging off Thorin's hand. "This happens to be the latest fashion."

To that, Thorin laughed as he had not done so in months.

***


	3. Chapter 3

"Teach me."

Dwalin had lost count of the number of times Thorin had uttered those words, and it was always just that once for every new profession. He looked up from where he was arranging his hammers and chisels in his blacksmith's toolkit to watch Thorin walking off with Dori towards the open gates. 

_Breadmaking, then._ He snorted and began packing away his bundle. It would be harvesting in the fields for him today. Just his luck, with the sun blazing at its peak overhead.

Thorin wasn't being choosy, but then, he could ill afford to be. Dwalin had had to assist in a number of odd jobs as well, but only with the grunt work. The more skilled artisans and craftsmen in their numbers kept hold of the reins. Thorin had no qualms about asking to be taught whatever required an extra pair of skilled hands. This was a new city, relatively small and peaceful, and the jobs available to them were more domestic than in previous settlements. There was a shortage of workers in their bakeries, of all places, and a festival was fast approaching. 

Dwalin knew Thorin was a quick study, but exactly how quick, he never quite realized until recently. He was sorely reminded of the four times Balin had tried (and given up on) teaching him the intricacies of tanning and leatherwork. Yet another thing that Thorin had learned in the span of days, just last week.

Shame was rock solid in his gut, when he thought of how he just wanted Thorin to stop. There were things he desperately wanted to say:

_"This is beneath you."_

_"Your hands should be holding swords, not shovels."_

But doing so could only make things more difficult for his friend, so he seethed quietly.

They'd even had to dress him down so he looked more like the rest of the peasantry instead of noble-born, although his bearing and unconscious use of language often gave him away. Still, it was far better for him to be mistaken as some twice-removed cousin rather than a prince and survivor of Durin's line. The official story was that the royal family was given sanctuary in the Iron Hills, and the king and heir were slain at Azanulbizar. 

Thorin wasn't even giving himself time to mourn, and learning these new professions made for excellent distractions. It was convenient that they also happened to be necessary. 

Dwalin had to wonder how much more of himself his friend would give before he started to crack.

 

"Move over." Dwalin startled from the light doze he was _almost_ enjoying. It was testament to how tired he was that he hadn't even noticed Thorin's approach. He dutifully scooted around the tree, leaving enough room for the other dwarf to make himself comfortable in the shade. A brief, assessing glance revealed that Thorin's arms and the entire front of his tunic were dusted with flour, and while his friend looked exhausted, he didn't seem injured. 

Thorin was in the process of settling down beside him when he closed his eyes again, hoping to recapture the blissful sleep that was almost within reach earlier. He roused when he felt a weight making itself comfortable on his sore thighs. 

"'M sweaty," he grunted at the back of Thorin's head. 

He felt the answering shrug. "Don't care."

Thorin sounded as tired as he felt. He moved around a bit, putting more of his weight against the tree and willing his legs to relax. He heard Thorin sigh.

He felt a little too aware of his surroundings now to slumber, but this was restful enough. A cooling breeze passed by and ruffled the strands of Thorin's hair, which, after a few weeks, had already grown an inch or two. His beard was another matter - it was bad enough that Dwarf beards were slow to grow, but Thorin's especially seemed to be taking its time. 

Not that different from when they were younger, Dwalin remembered fondly, and when Thorin had been lightly teased for his bare face while his peers were proudly sporting thick stubbles.

"You smell like wet earth," Thorin murmured against his leg. Dwalin barely made out the words.

"Y'smell good enough to eat." That brought a weak laugh out of his friend, although Dwalin wasn't really trying to be funny. He'd been toiling under the unforgiving sun for several hours and had been too tired to hike back to their settlement for a proper bite. Thorin smelled like flour, cherries, and freshly-baked bread, and it was making his stomach churn.

He dusted off a large patch of white powder from Thorin's sleeve. After a pause, he hovered his hand near Thorin's head and asked, "Aye?"

For a brief second, he thought his friend might have fallen asleep - but Thorin eventually murmured an annoyed "of course" into his thigh. Dwalin ran his fingers through the short, white-speckled strands, dislodging sticky, wet flour and dusting off the rest. 

That was one thing many of their generation had been ill-prepared for, as sheltered from the outside world as they had been in Erebor. Men thought little of touching other people's hair - or perhaps just theirs, in particular. Many of them seemed to think their added height gave them leeway to be bolder. A curious glance would often be followed by a reaching hand, though Dwalin was always quick to remind them that while they might be taller, his axe could still reach their necks.

Thorin and Dis, when they were out together, were often the brunt of such attention. The similarities between them were undeniable, and all three of them - Frerin, included, and Dwalin didn't let himself linger in that direction for too long - seemed to have been blessed with appearances that were considered attractive to both races. A few days back, a simple stroll towards the market had the siblings returning in foul temper, and Dis yelling at Dori to show her how to sew. "Hoods are in order," she simply said. Neither tight-lipped sibling would tell Dwalin what had happened.

"Does it feel strange?" he asked. Thorin's hair was as clean as it was going to get. He played with a few strands between thumb and forefinger - the ends were already starting to curl in that natural wave Thorin's hair had - before dropping his hand back to his side. 

Dwalin waited, but Thorin remained silent. His thoughts wandered to his own head, for which he'd solicited help to keep the top bare and smooth. A month's earnings got him the services of Glosur, one among the very few tattoo artists in their ranks, with the promise of being taught the craft if Dwalin showed enough aptitude. Three gates were already skillfully drawn in. It would only take a few more nights for the rest to be completed.

"Feel naked," Thorin murmured. Dwalin had an odd moment where he was grasping for an appropriate context for what Thorin had just said until he remembered his earlier question. 

"You're not." Dwalin felt out of his depth. "Too many clothes for that."

He didn't know if making light of it had been the right thing to do, but Thorin laughed politely anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

Their valuables slowly diminished. Dis kept a box tucked away in her rucksack, and in it were three sets of hair pieces made of white gold and crushed pearls. She had commissioned them herself from one of the finest jewellers in Erebor - one for their grandfather, and two for her brothers. Their father's went missing with him during the battle in Khazad-Dum, and two of them still had tiny stains of blood from when Dis removed them from her grandfather's and brother's lifeless, unseeing corpses. Thorin would not let her take them out, much less offer them to barter, and whenever she would suggest it during their most desperate days, he would opt to take another three overnight shifts at the forge rather than let her touch them.

Thorin nearly had no jewellery left. Three of his precious rings went into acquiring provisions and salted baskets designed to lengthen the longevity of their food supplies (and, secretly, a pair of travel sandals for Dis, for which he was both thanked and admonished). His beard clasps, made of pure gold inlaid with rubies, were traded for sixteen saddled ponies. Two emerald necklaces with detailed etchings of the symbol of the House of Durin were bartered for tents and blankets.

He kept one ring, crude in comparison to the others, which Frerin had made when he was younger and was experimenting with combining alloys at the castle forges. Behind their father's back, of course. It was dangerous work. "I know it doesn't look like it, but it's supposed to be Erebor," he had laughingly said. It had remained wrapped around Thorin's ring finger ever since.

His thoughts now went to the small box bundled in linen and placed at the bottom of Dis's saddlebag. It could afford to lose one set, perhaps, since he would have no use for his with his cut hair. He wasn't quite able to prevent the bitterness from showing in his tone, however. "What of trade?" he asked of the man standing in front of the closed gates, a step closer than the group that stood guard with iron pitchforks and wooden sticks. "We have precious jewels - "

"I am sorry. We don't get Dwarves 'round these parts," the Head Councillor (as the townsmen had called him) said. His expression spoke of some annoyance, as if Thorin was entirely to blame for this current awkward predicament. As if their need for the most basic of necessities was _inconveniencing_ him. "But some of us have had dealings with your folk. You will find little welcome here."

Thorin scowled. "I neither know nor care of the Dwarves you've encountered before, but _we_ of the Lonely Mountain are honorable. We work hard and -"

"Be that as it may, our comforts are few," he swiftly interjected. Thorin could hear Dwalin's faint growl at the interruption. "It would be best if you moved on. The harvests were meager, our trade caravans have yet to arrive, and we've little need for smithing."

"We can offer services other than smithing," Thorin persisted. His jaw felt stiff. His heart clenched at the effort it took to convince himself that he _wasn't_ begging. "If only for a few nights' rest away from the cold. Our children are much weakened from the day's heat."

And the number of sick among them grew slowly every day, but that was not something he could mention. They were in danger as it was from being run out of the area simply for being Dwarves, but there would be no tolerance for Dwarves housing sick numbers. Their healers claimed that the affliction spread through touch and only affected their race, but he could hardly use that as reason without it sounding like a frantic lie.

He felt despair settle like a lead weight in his stomach - he knew the answer from the man's face even before he spoke. "I am sorry, but we cannot help you."

Despite the polite words, Thorin was hard-pressed to recall a colder dismissal. He hid his clenched fists by folding his arms. "Then will you at least permit us to set up camp outside of your walls for tonight before we journey farther?"

He did _not_ look happy with the prospect, and, for a second, Thorin thought he would refuse them even this request. But despite the grumblings of the men around him, the Councillor said, "You may. Just be warned that these lands are harsh, and wild creatures come down from the mountainside at night."

Thorin said his thanks through gritted teeth. At his signal, Dwalin and the others withdrew to give word to the others. He turned to joined them, but paused when he caught the tail end of the conversation from the departing men. 

"...probably murder us in the middle of the night."

"Don't worry. The cold'll get them if the animals don't."

 

The cold was dry and harsh, and permeated even Dwarven skin. It would not be so terrible if only the sick among them didn't number close to fifty. They made sure to build fires near the mounts and the animal pens, and kept the tents of the ill and the young aptly supplied with frost garbs and blankets.

The first deaths of the night, however, were not from the cold. 

Some time close to midnight, he and Dis were awakened by a keen wailing nearby. They hastily put on their coats, grabbed their weapons, and headed out to find Dwalin and Dori already up and gathering men. 

Dwalin grimly met his gaze. "Brall's and Jor's kids are missing."

Two of their trackers followed the children's trail under torchlight. Footsteps turned into torn clothes. Torn clothes, into drops of blood. The trail ended at the fringes of an old ruin close to the mountains, where bloody bones were all that was left for them to gather and take back to camp. 

"Wild wargs," the tracker morosely said, after a moment's observation of the remains. Dwalin ordered the dwarves behind him to secure what they could in their cloaks.

Bile threatened to rise up in Thorin's throat. "We must hurry," he urged, for beyond the glare of his torch, he felt eyes in the dark.

Their return to camp was a rushed and unhappy affair. They were met with more grim news - within the hour that they had been gone, one of their own had perished from disease. 

Thorin hadn't known Rhuk all that well, but the old dwarf had patiently taught him the basics of fastenings just a few weeks earlier. His wife hadn't survived the fire in Erebor, and his three sons had perished at Azanulbizar. He had worn the smile of someone who still found much to live for, and Thorin had found it rather infectious.

Dead, now. Under his watch.

_Later_ , Thorin promised himself. He commanded all able-bodied men to ready their weapons and wait at the eastern and southern borders of the camp. Far to his right, he could see Dwalin and a handful of others creating makeshift spiked wooden fences. Midnight had come and gone, and, within a few hours, the night would be at its deepest black.

Hunger was a persistent bite in Thorin's stomach. He stood behind a mounted spear, sword and axe in hand, and let his gaze sweep across the lined up Dwarves at his sides. His men were robbed of both food and sleep, and among the ranks of those ready to fight, there were faces he recognized as having as much to do with warfare as Dwalin did with embroidery.

Yet their expressions remained determined. Unwavering. Thorin held no doubt that Brall's cries of anguish rang as loudly in their minds as they did in his. _"Arm the helpless, Thorin,"_ his grandfather had said to him, once. _"Give weapons to those who know the value of sacrifice."_

Howls began to echo from the dark. Thorin flexed his sword arm and rolled the hilt around in his palm. Though his enraged heart thrummed with memories of the small, bloody bones scattered on dead structures, it was Dwalin's rough voice beside him that said, "No more losses today."

_Mahal bless this dwarf,_ Thorin thought, even as he yelled the battle cry of his forefathers and signalled the charge.

 

Dawn was breaking when one of them yelled of smoke in the far distance, hidden from view behind copses of oak and pinewood trees. He sent someone to scout ahead. The wargs continued to arrive in groups of eight to ten, though they had diminished in frequency for the past half hour, a small reprieve that at least allowed them to re-fortify some of their defenses.

"Human caravans at the eastern path!" the scout yelled from the distance. "Seven, two on fire and beyond salvaging!"

Thorin's breathing stuttered. He could feel dragon fire breathing down his face. He licked his lips and looked around at his tired warriors, who were picking off the few remaining wargs like pests. There was an odd moment when his eyes met Dwalin's across the field. Whatever it was that Dwalin saw on his face made his friend extremely wary. 

He turned back to the waiting scout and yelled, "Are they able to defend?"

"Thorin..." Dwalin's tone held an edge of warning. He ignored it.

The scout shook his head. "They have few guards, most are dead."

"Well, we know what's distracting the wargs, then," Gloin dryly remarked. A few others gave exhausted, half-hearted laughs.

"Thorin." Dwalin had made his way quickly across and now laid a firm hand on his arm. He didn't even a blink when Thorin furiously shook it off. "They turned their backs on us - they _insulted_ us. Let them fend for themselves!"

Thorin gave him a dirty glare. His voice was almost an angry hiss, but he might as well have shouted with how the men around them fell silent. "Would you have us no better than Thranduil's ilk when we were in need?! They are _defenseless_ , and we have the means to fight!"

Dwalin remained annoyingly nonplussed. "Then be _sensible_ , aye? Our warriors are few. We cannot afford to lose any more."

_"Tell me, then, children of Durin: if our positions had been reversed, and a dragon had laid waste to our forest homes, would you have risked the lives of your men to aid us, knowing that it led to certain death?"_

_There was little time for Thror to answer. Thorin saw _red_. "Yes, curse you! A thousand times, yes!" The words were out of his mouth before he could even consider stifling them. He had been present when his grandfather and Thranduil had exchanged words of peace and support long before the dragon came. Of sacrifice and honor. And the word of Dwarves, once given, was etched in stone._

_"Thorin, you forget your place!" his father yelled, but his words barely pierced Thorin's attention. For as Thorin had spoken, his father had looked_ ashamed _, and his grandfather had not looked so certain._

_And Thranduil saw, as he did._

_"You are a fool, Thrainsson," Thranduil said to him. But the words held no heat, and his eyes held pity and regret._

It was a bitter memory, one that Thorin hated recalling. He had begged off from joining the meeting, but his father had insisted. Thranduil had specifically requested his presence. 

Dwalin had not been there. But listening to his friend now, Thorin had never felt more alone. How could they differ so, disagree so, when they both had Erebor in their hearts?

Dwalin's expression softened a fraction, though his eyes looked no less resolute. He cursed under his breath and drew closer. "Don't look at me like that. I'll follow you to the ends of the earth. You know this, aye? But you ask me to set aside my pride, and I've lost enough as it is."

"We all have." He did know. He understood Dwalin's reasons, and he knew he was asking for a little too much this time. But Dwalin had let go of his arm and began sheathing his weapons anyway.

Perhaps it was seeing Dwalin capitulate that finally gave the others their voices back. All around him, protests arrived in tired, whinging tones, some even sounding close to anger:

"Thorin. You can't mean to -"

"They would have let us die out here -" 

"We owe them nothing!"

"Enough!" The grumbling was slow to cease. "I only ask those of you willing and still with strength to come. I bear no ill-will to those who are able and yet choose to stay."

That seemed to appease most. In the end, more than half of the men volunteered, while those who stayed seemed to mostly do so out of necessity.

With a grateful nod to those gathered around him, he gestured onward and broke into a run, his oak shield strapped and ready around his wrist. The smoke past the trees had gotten thicker during the brief pause, and the sounds of several wargs howling at once echoed in the air.

"No more losses?" he whispered wryly to Dwalin, who had taken up his customary position by his side. Ahead, past the line of trees, several human bodies lay broken and half-consumed on the forest floor. Four more caravans remained intact, housing humans - a few women and children among them - still desperately clinging to what little line of defense they had at their disposal.

Dwalin's answering grin was a little crazed around the edges. Just as Thorin liked it. "'Twas before you kept pushing your luck!" 

Then the wargs charged at them, and there was nothing but more battle for the next two hours.

 

When Thorin next met with the Head Councillor, it was with a little more fanfare than before, and in a far more welcoming atmosphere. They were actually allowed past the town gates, for one.

"If you must pay us, let it be with food and shelter," Thorin was quick to say. At the slightest display of hesitation, he hastily added, "Please. Our fighters are wounded and tired."

"Our inns really _are_ full," the Councillor said, sheepishly this time. "They house displaced families from a recent flooding. But there are land owners who have volunteered their space. Their children and relatives were part of the caravan you've helped." He gestured to the many boxes and parcels being unloaded from the surviving caravans. "And of course, what food we have from trade is yours. We cannot thank you enough."

"I still say we should have let them be," Dwalin would mutter later after taking a long, deep swig from his mug of ale, safe and blanketed in warmth within the town's largest pub.

"Perhaps," Thorin answered with a sigh. He had been over this with three different people already. "I do not claim that my decision was right. Merely that it was the one I could live with."

"You," Dori said, from a table away (where he had apparently been shamelessly eavesdropping), "are _no_ Thror, my Prince."

Though Dori's words were slurred, a sure sign that he was well into seven tankards of alcohol, they still stung. Thorin bit his lower lip and forced his hands to loosen their death grip on his mug. A metal-clad hand firmly clasped his arm, and he looked up into Dwalin's laughing eyes. "He means to _praise_." An implied "you idiot" hovered somewhere in there, remaining unsaid in all but Dwalin's expression.

Thorin frowned. He looked back over his shoulder and saw Dori nodding vigorously.

There were still things Thorin could take offense with from what he'd said - it pained him to think that his people needed reminding how Thror had been a _great_ bloody king, and that his actions later had been borne of sickness - but he was tired, and Dori looked far too happy to pick a fight with at the moment. He raised his mug reluctantly and gave a pained smile. 

He refused to feel embarrassed at the abject relief he felt when Dwalin's grip on his arm slid across his shoulder and pulled him into a quick half-hug, and a noisy, wet kiss was pressed solidly onto his temple. 

Of all the things Dwalin could be proud of that day, him not making a drunk Dori feel bad had been...well. Nowhere near the top.


	5. Chapter 5

It had only been a matter of time before Thorin was made aware of the reason behind Dis's absences and her early morning walks. Dwalin merely wished he had been nowhere near the two when the explosion occurred. 

"A 'suitor'?!" Thorin spat out the word as if it were rotten wheat. "One that would flee from sight like a filthy little criminal-"

"I told him to leave," Dis interrupted, her voice hard. That did seem to be the case, as when both he and Thorin rounded the corner on their way to check on the livestock, the dwarf Dis had been speaking to didn't leave so much as get repeatedly shoved by the panicking lass until he got a clue and reluctantly scampered off. "And I was right to do so. Stop raising your voice!"

"There is a protocol, a procedure to these things!" Thorin said, even louder than before. Dwalin growled - it was still early enough that only field workers were up and about, but any louder and Thorin's voice could rouse the dead. "Have you forgotten what our parents had arranged? There is still the matter of Dunar, Dain's cousin-" 

"What of him? You know as well as I the true purpose behind that match. Do you think it will still be on offer now that we have no kingdom and no wealth to our names?" Dis exhaled a calming breath. "He is no Dunar, but he is my _choice_ , brother."

"He is _nothing!_ " Thorin roared, and his expression of anger was now mirrored on his younger sister. Terrific. Dwalin's fingers itched with the pure desire to bash their heads together. "You will cease this dalliance and-"

" _Dalliance_?!"

"-have him speak to me, or the next weapon I sharpen will have his name on it! Where are you going?! Dis!"

Dis had started stalking off before Thorin could finish his tirade. Rather than reply to him, she directed her angry stare at Dwalin instead and said, "Tell that loam-headed brother of mine that there's no reasoning with him when he's like this. And make sure he cools his head!"

Any further attempts Thorin made to demand Dis's return was met with a flounce and a generous view of her departing back. Dwalin pressed his hand firmly against Thorin's chest when the latter angrily lunged forward - one glance at the curled lip and the knitted brows, and he knew Dis was right. There was no talking to Thorin when he was like this. 

Correct or not, Dis really should have known better than to let her last words be riddled with insults. Though perhaps she had and chose to ignore good sense anyway. Balin often joked that while the Fundins exhausted its cache of ill temper within one of two siblings, the line of Durin spread great amounts of it equally among all its children. 

But Balin was not here, and, as the seconds flew by, Dwalin could feel Thorin's anger slowly shifting from Dis onto himself. 

Dwalin grumbled under his breath. He'd never had his brother's talent for dousing tempers, and his friend and king looked ready to fight him tooth and claw if he attempted any such thing now. Blue eyes flashed, as if daring him to say anything remotely placating.

He withdrew his hand and began treading the path they'd meant to travel earlier. When he heard no one following, he glanced back at Thorin's resolute gaze and said, "Well? There's work to be done."

Thorin seemed to be weighing something in his head. Dwalin waited him out, and was rewarded with a defeated sigh and a begrudged stomping towards the road leading to the animal barns. "Piss-poor job of calming me down, this," he muttered as he passed by. 

Dwalin couldn't really argue with that. He had little by way of explanation when Gloin looked absolutely bewildered as to why Thorin was barking out his compliments and glaring at everything that was in its rightful order. It took all of morning and half of lunch before he seemed to lose steam, and Dwalin had a feeling he had Dori's turn in the kitchens to thank for that. The two local inns had agreed to let the dwarves commandeer their large kitchens once a day, if they would supply them in turn with wild game, something that was at least plentiful in these parts. 

Dwalin was still busy tearing into his spicy pheasant when Thorin set aside his cleaned plate and turned to face him. "You knew," he simply said, and glared accusingly. 

It hadn't been a question. Dwalin shrugged one shoulder and said, "Saw him holding her hand two months ago. She swore me to secrecy." The plea had been more for Thorin's sake than her own, Dwalin recalled, as she'd been firmly convinced that her brother would take this as nothing but ill news - something he didn't need on top of everything else. He took a brief look at Thorin's face and carefully added, "He's a good sort. Hard-working. He'd not take advantage of her."

Dwalin thought the opposite was probably more likely, but he firmly kept that thought to himself. Thorin looked far from appeased. It was a few more bites into Dwalin's meal before he spoke again, "Could he not have at least announced his intentions formally to me?"

"Would it have done him any good?" Dwalin asked, with a raised eyebrow.

"Of course not, but it is the _principle_ of the matter!" Thorin huffed and pushed himself away from the table. "Remind our hunters that we have only a few days to refill our salt baskets. I'll meet you later before the caravans set off."

Dwalin wondered briefly if Thorin was of sound enough temperament to go searching for his sister, but then remembered, with much chagrin, just how utterly _useful_ he'd been earlier. Well, he still had half a plate to wolf down - best to let them work it out between themselves. 

 

Dis was back in the room they shared, sitting at the head of her bed and poring through several pieces of parchment she'd laid on the mattress. Inventory, it looked like. She waited until he'd seated himself on his own bed before turning to give him an assessing look.

"I'm not talking to you if you're still angry," she slowly said.

Thorin sighed. "Could you not have waited until..."

"Until what?" Dis curtly interrupted. "Until we return to Erebor?"

"Perhaps," Thorin replied, tired, and watched as the sarcasm melted from his sister's face. "Or until Father is found."

Pain that mirrored Thorin's own darkened Dis's eyes. "We are fools, the pair of us," she said, with a forced laugh. 

It was curious, the sudden relief that he felt. With those few words, Thorin found a certainty he hadn't felt in ages, similar to the abject comfort he rediscovered when his back once again lay upon a soft mattress instead of a blanket-covered ground. Despite their shared losses, Dis still hoped, as he did. 

"I kept him secret because I didn't wish for you to preside over the formalities, as Father would have," she continued, her eyes earnest. A corner of her lips lifted in a self-deprecating half-smile as she said, "You're not the only one who isn't ready to move on."

Thorin returned her smile. The gnawing guilt that had settled at the pit of his stomach since that morning eased. "So," he casually said, "does the _cur_ have a name?"

"His name is Halvar, Kalin's son." Thorin scoffed. Dis crossed the distance between their beds and settled behind him, her arms coming around his shoulders to wrap around his neck. He could feel her fond smile against his ear. "He has _some_ clout. He did formally present his suit to Father, a few years ago."

Thorin frowned. "I'd not heard." It must have been during one of his visits to the Iron Hills.

"I think everyone likes to pretend it never happened," Dis mused aloud. "His suit comprised of a modest sum, a _promise_ of a house, and a business yet to be inherited from an uncle. I'm sure you can imagine Father's reaction."

Thorin couldn't quite keep the sudden laughter from escaping. Not that he tried very hard. He felt a light slap on his arm. "Don't laugh! I wasn't very happy with Father after that."

Thorin hummed low in his throat. " _That_ , I remember." It hadn't been long before the dragon came, then. He also remembered the way their father looked ready to throw something when he'd asked about the near-palpable tension during their family meals upon his return. _"Your sister would have the noble line of Durin living in hovels and hoarding sand instead of gold!"_ he'd groused, and Thorin had steered clear of the subject even well after sister and father were on speaking terms again. He placed his hand on his sister's wrist. "He treats you well?"

"He has been a rock at my side ever since we were driven from home."

"I suppose I must adapt to the idea of sharing your time with another." Dis's sudden chuckle had him tilting his head to the side with a puzzled frown. "What?"

The hug around his neck tightened. "Frerin and I have had to share you with _Dwalin_ since we were very little."

"It is not the same," Thorin grumbled.

Dis's laughter grew. Thorin secretly hoped its sound would not be as rare as it had been for the past year. "Don't lie, brother. It's not very attractive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long I'm taking to update this. RL and other fics have been taking up my time. Really sorry! The fic's going to get a bit darker after this (sexual themes, violence, etc.), apologies in advance if that's not something you wished to read. Will put up warnings at the beginning of the relevant chapters.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW: offscreen dubcon**
> 
> This chapter was inspired by [this kink meme prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/702.html?thread=810174#t810174) that I'd read a long time ago, and the idea just never left me. 
> 
> So sorry for taking so long on this fic. Much love to the wonderful beta.

At first, Thorin thought he imagined it, but as time went on, his suspicions grew. He had noticed the whispers and the stares, the way people would sometimes linger at the forge and try to engage him in conversation. There had been previous propositions towards the younger of their kin, those who had yet to properly grow out their hair or beards, and these same glances were being thrown his way as they passed through village after village. Dis had taken to insisting he wear a hood to cover his head, though it was far too impractical to keep it up while he worked.

"Blast our blue eyes and this short hair," she muttered, as she arranged and dusted his clothes off in worry. She tugged the hood far down to hide his face, but Thorin pushed it back with a growl. "In and _out_ of the foundry, do you hear? I care not for the way those men were looking at you."

The men Dis spoke of were a rather raucous group of youngsters, possibly older than Thorin comparatively; it was rather hard to judge with humans. They had passed by their settlement earlier on horses, noisy and pointing without regard for the black stares being thrown their way. 

When Thorin had pointedly stood between them and the tents with Dwalin and a handful of others, axes and swords mounted on the ground, guarded but not threatening, they had quieted and openly stared. One of them had appeared confused, his gaze upon the messy clumps of wavy hair on Thorin's head, but realization seemed to dawn on him and he whispered to the others. The group then trotted back to the safety of their walls and left the camp alone.

Thorin didn't have the heart to tell Dis that a few of those men had been present when Thorin was concluding negotiations with the human lord. Perhaps guests or relatives. They had merely watched, however, and he saw no cause for worry.

"Dwalin will be with me. No one causes trouble around him."

"Aye." Dwalin fondly patted Grasper with a toothy grin.

They were approached not ten minutes later at the smithy. His hood lay with Dwalin's cloak on a far table, and he wore merely his shirtsleeves and sweat upon his brow. Three shadows towered over their alcove, but since the smithy was not their own, they let the proprietor talk shop while they prepped the forge.

"How's business, Cole? I see you've new rabble working your fires." The one who spoke was a fairly slender man of average height, all blond hair, pale skin, and amber eyes. Unremarkable colors around these parts, from what Thorin could observe. He had been the one leading the rowdy group earlier, when they were laughing and pointing at the Dwarven tents.

Their employer leaned an arm on the counter. "'Tis early yet, Master Flin. And aye," all four men turned to look at both him and Dwalin, "they assure me they're the best smiths their lot has to offer. We'll see, we'll see."

Thorin shared a glance with his friend before turning back to work. That was not entirely true, since their best smiths had proceeded with a portion of their assemblage to the next city just a few miles north, where pay was better and prices more competitive (the intent was two-fold, since they had also heard of a Dwarven community nearby, and sent two representatives along knowledgeable in potions and healing practices - the sickness continued to rage within their numbers, and they remained defenceless against it). Still, the forge master had seemed impressed with the handiwork they'd presented, despite his personal dissatisfaction. Gloin assured him that he was starting to show great promise in the craft, though he knew he was still a long way from producing the levels of artistry that seemed to be instinctual in his artisan superiors.

There were sounds of wood scraping against stone at the storefront - the men pulling up chairs and making themselves comfortable. "Think I saw that one in my cousin's house earlier."

Thorin felt the heat of several gazes at the back of his neck. He stifled the urge to glare over his shoulder. A pampered relative of the city's lord, then. An unwelcome memory of a child of seven pointing at him while tugging on his father's robes flashed through his mind. When did the air get so stifling?

"Pass me that, would you?"

Dwalin's loud voice grabbed and held his attention. He handed over the coal shovel, braced his back against the unwelcome attention, and busied himself with laying out the tools from their smithing belts.

The roar of the forge dimmed the conversation amongst the Men nearby, and once hammer met heated steel, it was easy enough to pretend that he and Dwalin were alone at the smithy. That didn't last very long, however. An hour into their task, and a long shadow fell upon his anvil, blocking his light and invading his space.

He calmly set aside his hammer and placed the heated blade on a nearby stone shelf, safe to air dry. Near him, Dwalin was still pounding away at his bell crown, though his hammering had slowed, and his eyes carefully watched the other people in the forge. "What can we do for you?" Thorin asked, turning to find only the blond man from earlier in front of him. A brief glance towards the entrance showed the other two men standing guard at the door.

The man was shameless in his open appraisal - his gaze swept across Thorin's face, his hair, his front. Thorin bore it with great discomfort. When the man dropped his gaze to the gloves he carried in his hands (thin, delicate things, the type people in these areas used for frippery with little practical use), he spoke with a tone that sounded almost formal. "Your men are sick."

Thorin reflexively cast his eyes about for the proprietor, but he was nowhere to be found. This man, this _Flin_ , had probably arranged for him to leave. Carefully, he said, "You are mistaken, Sir. My men are fit and able for any task required of them."

"Not the ones occupying the southern tents."

The surety with which the man addressed him didn't appear to be a bluff. Although he spoke with no malicious inflections, Thorin couldn't help but feel that they were a hair's breadth away from being driven out of town. "Perhaps you might wish to tell us why you're here?" he asked. Dwalin had stopped any pretence of hammering and glared at the conversation. They were far enough that the two at the entrance still couldn't hear, though Thorin wondered if they knew anyway, being part of this one's good graces.

The man half-smiled and shifted on his feet. "My father, who rules the township north of here, trades in solvents, you see, specifically those that break and scatter deep mountain rock and leave behind crude ores." Thorin had seen such solutions before, when he was very little. His grandfather had requested their temporary use after witnessing their wonders in Dale, but had swiftly recanted after the first accident. There had been no stopping the corrosive liquid once it fell onto flesh and fabric, and though more careful measures could have ensured their continued use, Erebor had never been short of manpower, and he had seen little reason to risk lives for convenience.

Times gone past. It was difficult now to think of his grandfather and remember anything beyond the gold-maddened cast in his blue eyes. 

"A rough trade," the man continued, "but it brings us westwards twice a month, and often has us in the company of Dwarven tradesmen from the Blue Mountains." He squarely met Thorin's guarded gaze. "I know a little of your ways. I've also learnt to spot Vein Rot when I see it."

Thorin's eyes narrowed. "'Vein Rot'...?"

"It is so very odd you've not heard of it," the man said, as if pondering. "Then again, I've only ever been in the company of Blue Mountain Dwarves, and you lot seem to be an entirely different sort."

The sentence was left hanging, leaving room for Thorin to elaborate on their origins if he wished. A long silence fell on the forge.

"Well," the man eventually said, with a light shrug. "'Vein Rot' is what your kin from the West calls it. I've been told it is an illness that only befalls your kind, and that there are only three known sources: one is the barrow-downs in the west. Second, the befouled ruins that litter the mountain passes in the east. The last, from the Orc-ridden depths of Moria." He smiled pleasantly. "Perhaps you will tell me which one you have dallied in when our business is done."

"What is it you propose?" Thorin asked, and accompanied his next query with a light snort. "Do you mean to say you are in possession of a cure?"

"Yes," the man simply said, and Thorin's heart hammered in his chest. They had lost four the day prior, and three five days before that - the disease was slow and mostly taking the old, but, recently, an infant had been among the mourned.

Gloin had started carving their names on a thin metal sheet, whenever the lack of work allowed for it. The list was in danger of exceeding the two-feet long slab. Thorin's temper had flared when last he saw it, and he had almost thrown the accursed thing into a fire.

He narrowed his eyes. "You jest at our expense, Sir." Off to one side, he could see Dwalin with a firm grip on his forging hammer. He gave a miniscule shake of his head and a swift hand gesture out of the man's sight - _do not interfere_. Dwalin's frown deepened, but he gave an acknowledging nod. "Were I to believe you, I would tell you right now that we have no riches to trade."

The man didn't look surprised or disappointed. "I can see why you might think I'm trying to swindle you, but I am quite serious." From beneath his travelling cloak, he produced a small pouch. There was a faint clinking sound from within, like glass hitting glass. "Here is a sample, to prove my sincerity. It contains a dose good enough for one night - for one freshly touched by the sickness, it should be enough for a full recovery. However, for more advanced cases, it is only enough to buy a few days' time."

Thorin cursed the faint trembling in his hand when he reached for it and hoped the man didn't see. "The dosage?" he asked with affected calm, while he pulled on the pouch's drawstrings and poured three tiny glass containers filled with a red-amber liquid onto his palm. 

"A vial mixed with broth or soup, every three hours," the man amiably replied. "If the sick Dwarf already has bleeding beneath the skin, however, it is one and a half vials every four, to be taken right after eating."

The vials were carefully placed back into the pouch. "And should this work, how are we to know you have enough to actually be of aid to us?"

"I can take you to where I keep the stock. Simply say the word. It was meant for trade with your Western brothers, to keep their supply fresh. But as they have no pressing need of it..."

"What of payment?" 

For the first time during their conversation, the man hesitated. It did little to assuage Thorin's suspicions. "I shall be blunt: I have no need for wealth," the man began, "not that your lot seem to have much of it. I cannot return to my father empty-handed, so I'll take some of the steel tools your men trade for down in the market. What I _truly_ require is simple, _pleasurable_ , and...best discussed behind closed doors."

Thorin wished he could claim surprise. As it was, Dwalin was the one sputtering with indignation - despite his standing orders to remain quiet. "I think ye'd better leave," Dwalin finally managed to say, though he barely got the words out - his teeth seemed nearly glued shut, considering how tightly he was gritting them. 

"Dwalin."

His firm, warning tone was met with an incredulous stare. "You can't be th-"

" _Dwalin._ " _You overstep,_ Thorin swiftly gestured, irate. It had Dwalin clamping his mouth shut and quietly fuming. 

They stared at each other for a tense moment. Dwalin inclined his head a bit, acquiescing, and took a step back. His left hand moved, however - _Words after this._

Thorin huffed and turned back to the man, who was quietly watching them both with some measure of amusement. "Do you often conduct your business this way?" Thorin asked. "It is a wonder your trade remains afloat."

"Why not? It is what I desire." He laughed, loudly and unburdened. "But...no, this is not something I practise freely. I have had little desire to - and certainly, not from one of your kind."

The _"until now"_ hovered unspoken in the air. The man lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. "And luckily - or perhaps unluckily, as it were, depending on how you see things - were it not for that same desire, this offer would not even exist."

Thorin clutched the pouch in his hand, anchored by the way the vials pressed against his palms. "We will test this tonight," he said. "Where will I find you on the morrow?"

"At my cousin's hall. Give word to the guard at the eastern entrance." The long, decorative gloves were tugged back on. A pair that would burn quickly in a fire, Thorin thought. All you would need is embers. "We can arrange something discreet."

At the entrance, the man paused, with a hand laid against the arm of one of the two larger people standing on guard. "Let me be clear, however - you arrive willingly, or not at all." 

The angry crackling of the furnace was the only sound interrupting the heavy quiet after the man's parting. As admirable as Dwalin's display of discipline was, Thorin wryly thought, it came rather late. "Speak, if you must," he said, as he withdrew the blade from the shelf and thrust it back into the fire. 

"You look like you're considering his offer." Dwalin's voice was sharp. Restrained, but barely. "His _insane_ offer. If Balin were here, he'd -"

"I rather think Balin would agree with me." 

Dwalin snorted. "I know my own brother, and he would not see you debase yourself. Not even for this."

"'This'?" He raised his eyebrows and waved his hammer in the vague direction of the city's gates. "You mean the over a hundred ill Dwarves under my care and protection outside of the city walls, dropping like mayflies every day?"

Dwalin's expression grew darker. It usually brought Thorin's own defensive stubbornness to the forefront, but he refrained for now. It felt a little too comforting that his friend was giving voice to his own misgivings, and made him feel a little less alone. "I don't see why we cannot just empty his stores, and to the darkness with what he wants!" Dwalin struck his hammer down once upon the crown's surface - an angry gesture, and one that hopefully did not just cost him a whole day's worth of work. Thorin met his flushed face and blazing eyes with a resolute stare. "This once, Thorin. You needn't shame yourself further for anyone's sake."

"Is there shame in a private, consenting trade?" Thorin mused aloud. He removed the blade from the fire and continued, before Dwalin could even consider answering (which he sometimes did despite the rhetorical nature of his questions, Mahal bless him), "There are wasteland and marshes awaiting our journey west. The next village is several weeks' travel - perhaps a month, since we cannot afford to move any faster than we do now. His cousin rules this place, and his father rules the settlement north." Hammer met heated steel once again, spaced blows meant to thin the blade from the centre outwards. "What would you propose? That we make enemies of both and leave without provisions for a gruelling journey?"

"I propose," Dwalin replied, and oh, Thorin could feel the frustration rolling off of him in waves even with the distance between them, "that you stop pretending that this is little more than a simple barter. Not with me."

Thorin mulled on that for a moment, let it stew and roil in his gut, where it refused to settle. "It is not as if you are letting me forget."

"We can wait for the group we sent north to come back. We can go back to camp," Dwalin insisted, with that mulish set in his jaw that Thorin had grown to recognise over the years. "We can consult with the others, find another way -"

His temper rose, the hammer in his hand aborting its downward slam to swing threateningly at the other Dwarf. "You will most certainly not tell anyone else!" 

Thorin expected a matching temper, a flushed face, and an equally incensed voice to spar words with. As children, they had rarely disagreed, but when they had, their arguments had been explosive. But Dwalin's stoic gaze was clear and focused, and underneath it, he felt like he was being peeled open. "Think that's the 'shame' you were wondering 'bout earlier."

The words stung. Thorin snarled to mask his hurt. "Stop trying my patience." The hammer was slowly lowered. "You know why this must stay between us. Your brother may have shielded you from it, but your father kept my grandfather's secrets," he gentled his voice, and forcibly released the anger from the set of his shoulders, "and now, you will keep mine."

"I have always kept yours," was Dwalin's simple reply. 

The silence between them stretched. Under that devoted, sympathetic stare, Thorin was the first to look away.

 

"We have over a hundred diseased, over thirty in death's grasp." Thorin sighed and hefted the pouch in his hand. "One remedy."

"Not even that," Gloin said beside him as he perused a list in his hand, "if we're to use it on someone who's long into the fevers, as you said. That would bring your choices down to twenty-seven."

A list of twenty-seven names was handed to him. The words swam and melded together in front of Thorin's tired eyes. He was inclined to look amongst the names of the young, separated off to the right, but... "Dwalin, what say you?"

Dwalin shifted on his feet. His grasp on Keeper's handle tightened a bit. "I think we need warriors."

"Warriors...?" Gloin asked, with a questioning look. At Thorin's confirming nod, he took the list again and began making marks beside the names. "You've three names left. Of them all, Filgar, son of Balgar is by far the worst off. He is three days past the longest amount of days anyone's survived the illness." 

"Filgar." Anyone who had clung to life that long would surely be strong on the battlefield, perhaps. In the grander scheme of things, he supposed, it was as good a pick as any. 

The grander scheme of things. He looked over the other names of those well past the advanced stages of the illness and found them too many to remember. Names he knew, names he didn't recognise. People he'd cut off his left arm for weighed against people he knew nothing about, and both equally important.

He wasn't sure what Gloin saw on his face, but he was soon fixed with a pitying look and a consoling pat on the arm. "Choice is simpler, at least. Good luck to you both."

 

Filgar lived up to his stubborn reputation by trying to refuse the treatment.

He looked every bit as sick as Gloin explained him to be - eyes sunken, complexion deathly-pale, suffering tremors throughout his body that he was incapable of controlling. His scarred skin was mottled in stark patches of blues and greens, a sure sign of bleeding beneath the skin, left to fester and spread. Thorin had never seen it that badly before, even among those who had passed on. His sister Ril explained that the illness had dimmed his sight, but that they need not speak louder for his hearing was fine. 

"Begging your pardon, Pr - Thorin," the old warrior said, through stale breath and slightly chattering teeth, "but if you're about to make me drink what I think that is, maybe little Delya from two tents down can get it instead of me." He had been about to say more, but his speech was interrupted by a series of coughs, which brought forth spittle mixed with blood. It took a minute for him to be able to speak again. "If it's all the same to you, of course."

"It's not," Thorin replied, a little terse. "We need warriors, Filgar. If not you, then someone else who can bear arms."

"Reckon you can just pretend I'd spit out the medicine if you made me take it and give it to her instead." He wheezed out a laugh, the sound wet and uncomfortable to hear. "I promised her mother, 'fore she died last week. Won't feel right, being better while she's sick. I'd not forgive myself if she got worse."

"I'm afraid I'm not asking you, Filgar." Thorin gestured for the prepared bowl. The appetizing scent was drowned out by the stifling odour of sickness filling the tent. "We're not even sure if this will work, so there's that. I'd rather not test it on a child."

"Suppose that makes sense." He grunted and sighed as hands set to work raising his upper body with a couple of extra pillows. "I'm at your service, as always, Thorin. Do with me what you will."

Thorin watched until the bowl was nearly empty, and measured out a vial and a half in a small glass. He was about to approach closer to apply the dose, when Filgar began firmly shaking his head. "I'd not have you come closer than you ought to. My sister can do that for you, if you leave it on the table."

Ril fetched the glass. Before the medicine could touch Filgar's lips, Thorin said, "I swear on my forefathers, if you spit that out, I will knee you where you least want it."

Filgar laughed. Which had Thorin feeling a little guilty, since it brought on another severe coughing fit that lasted for a few minutes. 

 

Progress was monitored throughout the night, though Thorin wasn't allowed to stay in the vicinity of the southern tents. When he nodded off for the third time, Dwalin shook his shoulder and sent him off to sleep in his own bed. 

Morning came with both good and ill news - Filgar's breathing had improved, and he was well enough to walk around a bit, though his fever hadn't broken and his eyesight remained poor. Word of this followed on the heels of three more deaths during the night.

The names stared accusingly up at Thorin from the scrap of paper he'd been handed. To Gloin, he said, "Do not inform Filgar."

"But -"

"It might affect his recovery." He folded the paper again and handed it back to Gloin. 

"Aye," Gloin said, while taking the proffered list. "As you wish." 

It was a little past noon when he managed to fulfill the work order laid out for them at the forge. After a quick bath and a change of clothes, he found Dwalin waiting for him a street before the crossroads leading to the main hall. 

"No," he said, with a deep frown and a shove at Dwalin's shoulder as he passed by. 

"'M not here to quarrel with you," Dwalin said, falling into step beside him. "Either you agree to having a guard near enough to be of aid when you need it, or this doesn't happen."

A slight flush of embarrassment coloured Thorin's face. "I could order you to haul your arse back to camp."

"You could." He hefted Grasper in his right hand and anchored it against his shoulder, as if for emphasis. "I'll just say yes and come back to stand guard, though."

Thorin shook his head and released a loud sigh. He was a little relieved, truth be told, though he didn't want to encourage Dwalin in this sudden onset of mulish disobedience. 

"At least you're not wearing your finest leathers," Dwalin muttered. 

"Piss off."

They were both halted at the eastern entrance. Only Thorin was allowed farther in. 

"Thorin," Dwalin hurriedly said, before Thorin could move farther than an arm's length away from him, "this changes nothing." 

A puzzled frown marred Thorin's features. Dwalin drew a deep breath and came closer, so that his voice kept between them. Quietly, he said, "This doesn't make me think any less of you."

Laughter threatened to bubble up from somewhere deep within him. Thorin stifled it, but only just. He allowed a self-deprecating half-smile to curve his lips. "You lie so well, my friend."

 

Despite the advanced warning Thorin gave the others, the arrival of a handful of humans, arms loaded with barrels and crates, was met with collective silence and suspicious glares. Thorin expected little else. He had their remaining healers take instruction from them and show them to the southern tents. 

"There are humans walking amongst our sick," Dis said, as she ran up to him in a flurry of cloth and leather. His sister, looking quite beautiful in her blue travelling clothes, had just emerged from one of the tents housing their ill and was looking rather befuddled. 

Thorin barked an order to a nearby Dwarf to relieve the fifth human of his burdens. "Ril said you'd found a cure. Is this what she meant?" Dis continued, while laying a hand on his arm to gather his attention. "Thorin, why are they helping us?"

Thorin placed his own hand atop his sister's and smiled. "The lord's cousin was impressed with our hard work and craftsmanship," he smoothly said. The lie felt heavy in his gut. "He holds Dwarves in good regard, apparently. He approached me with knowledge of what ails us and wished to help."

He nearly startled when Dwalin's voice piped up from behind him. "Aye, he's a weird one. Travels and trades with our kin from Ered Luin."

"I see," Dis said, looking from one to the other. After a moment, she said, "You must tell me all about it tonight. You're not allowed to keep something that important from me."

"Of course."

"We must offer to feed them, at least." She looked about at the chaotic bustling surrounding them. "Where's Dori?"

Only when Dis was out of hearing range did Thorin allow himself to relax. Dwalin was a quiet, solid presence beside him. Together, they watched as crates and barrels exchanged hands, and groups of protective Dwarves suspiciously tailed every human who was allowed into a designated tent. 

Later that night, Thorin would have the most restful sleep he'd ever had in the past few months. But for now, he tried not to think of blond hair, human hands, heat, and litanies of praise whispered with practised ease into his inexperienced ear.


	7. Chapter 7

Passing time until the group up north returned to the main camp wasn't as relaxing as it could have been. Things were generally going well - their food baskets were stocked, their tools either fixed or new, and coin was flowing in from the services they were able to provide the town. Most of the dwarves in the southern tents were well enough to be reunited with their families. Dis told him that Thorin was sleeping well.

Dwalin had two pressing sources of discontent, and one was Thorin's newfound reticence. After the business at the main hall, Thorin spoke less and often seemed to get lost in his own thoughts. Dwalin's single awkward inquiry about what had transpired had been met with a pensive look and a worrying amount of silence.

Eventually, Thorin had said, _"It was...not entirely unpleasant."_ He hadn't said any more, and Dwalin hadn't felt the need to press, though he wondered if, perhaps, he should have.

The second was a certain blond-haired Man with entirely too much time on his hands. He came into the foundry, often a little past noon, and loitered about like some feckless miscreant with nothing else to occupy his days. Dwalin would have driven him off (and, in fact, threatened to do so when next he saw him at the entrance to the forge), but Thorin had waved him in, and didn't seem to find his company unwelcome.

Every moment spent in the Man's insufferable presence passed by as quickly as a Mountain Troll walking upslope. He would hover around Thorin's side of the room, and they would often speak in lowered tones. What little Dwalin could catch from the distance and through the clanging noise of hammer hitting steel revealed very little. Thorin's demeanour remained distantly polite, but not dismissive. The Man, however, seemed set on being openly flirtatious, and it set Dwalin's teeth on edge. 

_Presumptuous goat._ He caught the tail end of a comment regarding Thorin's hair when he stopped cranking the vise. A glance up showed Thorin giving a polite smile in response, and subtly redirecting the conversation towards trade routes.

When the man finally left, he said, loudly and with a tilt of his chin towards the exit, "You sure you don't want me to get rid of him? I can still chase him off."

Thorin looked genuinely surprised at his question. "Why?"

"...Y'know. If he's bothering you."

"He's harmless. Leave him be," Thorin said, after a soft snort and a chuckle. He moved around the anvil and started packing up their tools. "Besides, he's leaving with the caravans tomorrow. Idiot asked me to go with him."

"What did you say?"

The question had left his lips before his mind could race after it. In his defence, he felt something close to panic gripping his chest at the mere thought. (Not to mention the utter _insolence_ of the man for even asking in the first place - one punch, that was all Dwalin wanted, that really wasn't too much to ask for, was it?)

Thorin's incredulous glare conveyed all the answer (and opinion of Dwalin's intelligence) that he needed. But for good measure, his friend said with a wry twist of his lips, "I said 'yes,' Dwalin. That's why I accepted five days' worth of smithing tasks." 

"Fine." Dwalin handed over his hammer and enamelling tools when Thorin gestured for them. "Can't blame me for asking. Don't know what's going through that head of yours these days." 

Thorin gave him an amused glance before they left the foundry.

Later that day, the group from the northern town returned, with most of the small contingent bursting into tears from pure relief after hearing that most of the sick dwarves were well on their way to recovery. They carried with them an extra supply of the remedy (no longer needed, but a welcome addition to their healers' store of herbs and potions), and even more good news in the form of two light-footed messengers from the Iron Hills. They had been waiting within the town for a week, apparently, and they carried with them a message from his brother.

Balin's letter, written in that practised, flourished script, merely said that their group had reached the Iron Hills safely, and by the time they got this letter, they would have made good time on their journey westwards to rejoin Thorin's camp. 

One of the messengers said, after Thorin had finished reading the letter and passed it on to Dwalin, "Balin also wished me to tell you that the wandering Wizard, Tharkun, searches for you."

"For me?" Thorin asked, puzzled. 

Both messengers nodded. The other one, the taller of the two, said with a less formal air, "Tharkun was there, at the Iron Hills. He was rather put out when he searched Khazad-Dum - or so he said. Ever hear of anything like that, searching Khazad-Dum on your own?"

"Nonsense!" the other said in agreement. 

"I don't care that he's a Wizard, that just isn't right. Anyway, he heard a rumour that you'd gone to the Iron Hills, only to be put to rights by Balin on your proper whereabouts. I was there, I heard the whole thing."

"Aye, he was."

"'Curse all Durin's Folk and their tendency for secrecy,' he said."

"Aye."

"'Wouldn't know where to find help if it bi-'"

"No need to go into detail, brother."

"Ah. Sorry." The taller one ducked his head and adjusted his hood, as if just realizing who he'd been speaking to. "Well, that's the whole of it. Balin said we're to carry a message back if that is your will, but only if you don't mind it possibly getting lost."

"Dangerous roads. We have Balin's route, but he said he might change course if the occasion calls for it."

"That won't be necessary," Thorin said, forestalling the taller one, who had already been opening his mouth to say more. "Thank you both for your service. Please send my utmost thanks and regards to cousin Dain when you return home. I'll write him a proper letter once we're settled in the west."

With the northern group returned, Thorin sent word that they'd be departing soon and to conclude any remaining business in the coming days. He and Thorin figured that between them, they could finish their smithing duties within three.

He kept the letter deep within his coat pocket. As confident as he was in his brother's abilities, it was comforting to have some proof that he was still alive after being parted for so long. Perhaps things might have gone differently for them if Balin had stayed instead of him - a thought he hadn't let himself dwell upon for too long, but one that kept creeping into his mind whenever he would catch Thorin staring off into the distance, lost and out of his reach.

 

"You're here early."

Dwalin startled, and barely had enough time to hide his handiwork before Thorin turned around from discarding his hood and cloak on the table that already held his own. "We've plenty of work to do," he said, affecting bored calm. "Thought I should get a head start."

"You've not even prepped the forge yet." Thorin looked at him oddly as he went around to light the fires. "And no iron or steel upon your table. Did you just arrive?"

"Er...yes." Dwalin ducked under the table to haul the large barrel full of unshaped metals and broken farm tools in need of repairs and set it on the wooden surface. "This is the lot. Reckon we can finish in about two days, if Cole allows us to stay an hour late."

Furnace set ablaze, Thorin went over to the barrel and looked at the remaining items. "Hm. I suppose you're right." He drew out three of the one-inch thick iron bars set aside for the lavish gate commissioned by a noble and went back to his side of the room.

Dwalin took out a broken steel hoe and a logging axe from the pile, then put the barrel back on the floor. With a swift glance to ensure that Thorin was preoccupied, he quickly took the two braid clasps from the table's open drawer and placed them in his trouser pockets. 

He was still detaching wood from steel, when Thorin retrieved the three heated bars from the furnace with a pair of tongs. Carefully, he dipped the two white-hot ends into water for a few seconds, letting the glowing metal fizz into a dull grey, before anchoring one within the unforgiving grip of a vise. Four tight twists clockwise, two twists counter-clockwise, and seven hard taps on one end resulted in the bars cooling into an elegant, swirling pattern around each other, as if wrapping around an invisible orb. A perfect recreation of the original sample Cole had told them he wanted replicated four times. 

Cole had presented them with his conundrum armed with clay chunks to make moulds from. ("It has to be very, very precise, you see! I can't fathom how you can make it exactly like this without making casts first.") When he and Thorin had assured him they wouldn't need the clay, he'd at first seemed incredulous, then suspicious. Later today, he would probably circle right back to incredulous when Thorin presented his handiwork.

Thorin had also suggested a few improvements to the design, but Cole had put his foot down rather quickly. It was rather comical, how disappointed Thorin was with that, but Dwalin knew something in his friend ached to challenge himself in this craft.

When Cole showed up at the end of the day, he was so disproportionally impressed with the work Thorin showed him, that he offered them a rather generous salary if they should choose to stay longer and work for him long-term. When they refused, he offered a hefty increase to the initial amount he'd agreed to pay them for the commissioned gate pieces, and allowed them the run of the forge until all the work was done.

At the end of the day, the two of them were sore, tired, and in dire need of a bath. Tools in hand, Thorin waited impatiently at the entrance.

"You go on ahead," Dwalin said, his thoughts upon the unfinished braid clasps in his pocket. "I'll clean up here. Cole was complaining about the mess yesterday."

Thorin frowned and said, in a tone that brooked no argument, "No, we'll go together."

Unable to think of a suitable reply that wouldn't look suspicious, Dwalin nodded and fell into step beside him. He gave the two clasps in his pocket a consoling pat - hopefully, there'd be time for them tomorrow.

He'd been whittling away at the pair since the second township they'd come across that provided liberal access to a smithy. They were nearly done, really - just a bit more detail work on the etched borders. And perhaps a flourish or two on one of the letters. Or maybe another embedding of aquamarine...

The blasted things would never be finished at this rate. Not that he'd ever have occasion to offer them - not with the events of the past week, and Thorin looking just that little bit more haggard every day. 

No helping it, though. He'd just have to hold on to them a little longer. 

He squared his shoulders, gave Thorin's back an encouraging thump (earning him a small smile in return), and went off in search of dinner. 

 

Two days hence, a night spent singing, dancing, and eating in the town's taverns, and they were all packed and ready to continue the journey. Six families opted to stay this time - they often lost numbers whenever they came across decent towns, and this one was no exception. Thorin insisted on going over the state he'd be leaving them in before agreeing - not a very popular move among the rest (he had forbidden a small tailoring family from remaining behind before, and the resulting disagreement was still the subject of campfire gossip), but many understood his need to see them safe.

The first few days of travel were uneventful, the only source of fascination being the gradual transformation of the ground they walked on from lush and green to cracked and arid. There were fewer and fewer foliage and a marked decrease in animals to hunt. Even the very air had a sting to it when it passed through Dwalin's face. 

Nearing the close of the week, their journey was interrupted by a growing commotion from the dwarves behind them. Dwalin reared his pony back when Thorin halted his. They faced the extensive stretch of people and pack animals, and watched as an out-of-breath rider approached from the rear.

"Thorin," the dwarf said (Ondur, Dwalin remembered, skilled with spears and stationed to watch the hindquarters of their assemblage), "Balin has returned."

 

"What happened to you?" Balin asked, as he dismounted from his grey pony. Dwalin stepped up beside Thorin, and his brother's gaze immediately fell on him. "And what happened to _you_?! You just get uglier and uglier every time I leave you alone!"

"At least I'm not getting squatter," Dwalin said with a wolfish grin. Balin laughed, the sound lively and very well-missed. "You actually got something important to say, or should we get on with the journey?"

"Don't think I won't be hounding you two for the story behind those," Balin gestured to the top of their heads, "later. Well, I've a surprise of my own. If we can call it that." He indicated the path he'd taken to reach them with a cant of his head, where a few lagging dwarves on ponies and one rather tall figure atop a grand horse were approaching. "He should be riding up any moment."

Tharkun the Wizard lived up to his reputation by being quite grey all over. Dwalin had never actually seen the man himself, but he'd heard from Balin of the few times he'd visited Erebor, mixed with the many stories exchanged among gossips and children. He seemed amiable enough, and a little weatherworn, for a person supposedly in possession of mystical powers. Dwalin glanced at Thorin and saw a fond look in those blue eyes. 

Tharkun dismounted amidst a cloud of dust and swirling robes, with the rest of the warriors they'd spared for the trip to the Iron Hills still trailing behind him. He stood in front of Thorin and, in a gesture that had Dwalin's regard for him going up a notch, bowed low at the waist. 

"Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror," Tharkun said, as he straightened and looked Thorin over. The old, wizened appearance did little to hide the keen spark behind that glance. Dwalin didn't doubt for a second that the Wizard saw plenty. "My, my. Last I saw you, you barely reached my knee, with an unshakeable fascination for the state of my footwear."

"Well met, Tharkun," Thorin said while politely inclining his head, a small smile on his lips. "Your footwear was always a stroll away from falling apart. Grandfather never did tell me why he never sent you off with a proper pair whenever you came visiting."

"Ah, he did! Several, in fact. And he begged me to wear them next I return, if only so you would never look at him with such a piteous face again. I merely forgot every time." The old man stooped and gathered his robes in one hand, lifting enough to bring the hem two inches above the ground. Peeking beneath was a pair of simple but sturdy shoes, definitely of Dwarven make, and very finely made once upon a time, despite the unremarkable appearance. They were, predictably, in a deplorable state. "He gave me twelve pairs throughout the years - this is the second. Dwarven craftsmanship never ceases to amaze."

"Would that he were still alive to hear you say so."

Tharkun's expression turned somber. "I saw the sites of battle. Your grandfather and I disagreed on many things, but he was a fine dwarf, and a great ruler. Yes, yes, we must speak of these grave matters later. Ah..." A sparkle of mischief lit the Wizard's eyes. "Your praises are being sung in the halls of the Iron Hills as we speak, if you were not aware. 'Thorin Oakenshield', I believe they call you -"

"I have heard," Thorin dryly remarked. "I've been told you were in search of me - what is it you seek?"

"A matter that can wait 'til sundown. But for now, show me your map - perhaps I may be of aid."

Dwalin gave the order for them all to set up temporary camp. Thorin and Tharkun walked off together, speaking in low voices, the creased copy of a western map in Thorin's hands, and Tharkun's finger occasionally tracing paths across its surface. 

He shared a brief disgruntled glance with his brother at the sight. While Thrain and Thror had held this particular Wizard in good favour, their own father had had an entirely different opinion of him, which he and Balin often heard about at the dinner table.

Whichever the case - Thorin clearly favoured him now, and if he considered Tharkun friend amongst Dwarves, then Dwalin would keep from judging the old man's trustworthiness for now. Soon, they were travelling again - Tharkun and Thorin at the forefront, with he and Balin right after. As peaceful as the journey was, it was hard to shake off the sound of his father's voice, animated and upset, as he rode directly behind Tharkun and saw much of his broad back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for messing even more with canon (Gandalf's first meeting with Thorin being in Erebor and not in Bree). Thanks so much for the wonderful feedback, I appreciate them!

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to post this as one cohesive fic, but time (and/or my lack of organizational skills) was against me. Still going to try to aim for a story arc, but this is probably going to come across as disjointed sometimes.
> 
> A mithril shirt and a song from Thorin for my sleep-deprived beta.


End file.
